Doubt is the Worst Poison
by mcndy
Summary: Molly Hoopers of this world do not get captured. Why? Because Molly Hoopers of this world do not count. And yet she was starting to doubt that. Fic includes darker themes of torture, beatings and loss of trust. Later chapters might include smut ( though not of the bad kind ) and fluff at the end.
1. Chapter 1

Everything seemed to fall into place after the events with Euros. Although one of them fell and fell so hard that there was still a painful pounding of blood in all of their hearts whenever they thought of Mary, wife of one John Watson and a mother to their daughter Rosie, all of them knew that with time the pain will start to dull. It had to, didn't it?

Everything seemed to fall into place — Molly returned to working in the morgue and lab, letting Sherlock do whatever he wished in the facilities unconditionally, allowing and helping with his crazy experiments and even crazier cases. That's what she was for, right? Little, mousy Molly Hooper, always there to assist Sherlock Holmes and get nothing in return.

They never did discuss that phone call. Or rather, she never asked of it. John told her about what happened in Sherrinford, about tasks his best friend was thrust upon and that she was one of them as well. That's all she needed to know.

She was part of the game, as always. Coming to importance only when it was necessary for the world's only consulting detective. Did he ever remember her when there was no crisis in his world? Did he ever think of her when sitting alone in his flat in Baker Street, having nothing to do and getting bored out of his mind? She could ask if she were brave enough, but Molly already knew the answer. A single word; the world's most painful word — no.

So she didn't ask if her reveal was of any importance to him. And Sherlock kept silent himself; he never liked holding a conversation with her that didn't include the case or empty compliments that lured her into helping him out.

It's impossible to believe in any words of his — because long ago, five years ago to be exact she was right. She didn't count, she never did. Only her mind was useful from time to time. But she herself?

Long ago she was naïve as well, falling for any affectionate smile or glance that she overthought for hours on hours. She believed in every compliment and broke down at any harsher word sent her way. And yet she never blamed him, never blamed Sherlock for her heartache or the shyness and self-consciousness he kept pushing her further and further into with every deduction that didn't spare words as sharp as knifes. It's how he was; he couldn't help it. It was her mistake to put that dress on, wear that shade of lipstick or part her hair just so that would apparently displease him. It was all fault of Molly — she should've been better at her tasks, more appealing to the eye of a handsome consulting detective and less annoying. He was never to blame that thoughts fell into his mind and jumped from his tongue sooner that he could catch them ( not that he ever tried to do so, though ).

And she cried, oh had she cried back then. Cried over any critique and insult. Sobbed because of cold glares and orders to shut up. Wept because the smooth baritone she adored never said her a good word, not unless he wanted something from her. And oh did she cry after that call. She wept her eyes out, sobbed until her lungs were burning, throat closed off and lips chapped with the dryness salty tears inflicted.

Molly cried because she never counted, nor she ever will.

Tired and emotionally drained the female marched to the tube to get herself home from Baker Street. The boys were solving a case and it required someone to babysit Rosie. Since she had a day off she was more than eager to take care of the little angel who had her mother ripped away from her. It was always a delight to hold the small babe in her arms, coo at her and make silly faces. Or sing soft lullabies and watch as Rosie fell asleep. So sometimes she had dreamed of holding her own child like this, sue her. It's not like she could help it. Her biologic watch was buzzing and screaming that now was the exact time to have a kid of her own. The only problem was that there was no one to have that child with.

And yes, though she did miss Watson's baby girl, deep in her heart and mind she knew that part of the reason why she accepted was because she wanted to at least get a glance at the certain consulting detective that stole her heart all those years ago. Every once in a while, when the periods between visits at Bart's stretched out too far in between she needed to get some reassurance that he was alright; that he wasn't taking anything and actually looking after himself. That his frame didn't get any leaner than it already was, that his cheekbones didn't get even more prominent as cheeks sunk in from the lack of food and that there were no dark circles ruining the beautiful sight of his magnificent, electric eyes. And not every time would a phone call from John or Mrs. Hudson suffice.

Stepping into the tube and finding an empty space to sit down, Molly released a long breath, shoulders slumping and head hanging low. Never was she thought of when there wasn't a need to use her good heart. As more time went by it got more obvious to her and yet the pain still remained the same.

As soon as the two men returned from the crime scene, John took Rosie from her arms and thanked her, instantly focusing on his daughter, holding her close and whispering something into her ear. He was kinder, his glance was kinder and instantly apologetic. John knew what was coming; he always knew of the love she had for Sherlock and the fact that it was unrequited. Though words were polite, the ones that followed and fell from Sherlock she could sense the note of rush and impatience in them. He too thanked her and bid her a good night, her jacket limply hanging in his hand, fabric bunched where his long fingers curled into it and outstretched, waiting to be taken by the pathologist.

And it's always awkward, _always_ ; those goodbyes. She starts tripping over her own words and her eyes fall to the ground; dark brown unable to meet piercing blue-green. Over time, Molly started to believe that she learned to better navigate herself around those unpleasant situations. Now instead of blushing and school-girl smiles she had a gentle frown creasing the line of her brow, already thin lips disappearing into a white line and she pressed them together. She doesn't say much, just nods her head, slips into the jacket and gets her bag. And the goodbyes she gives back; well, Doctor Watson most certainly received a warmer one.

She wants to move on and move on is what she'll do, even if that will be the last thing she ever does. The charming, gorgeous detective will have to give back her heart, one way or the other; no matter how much she'll have to sacrifice. He'll have to give it back, because how else could she live without her heart; how else could find someone that could give her what she needs. How else could she give them back just as much? Heart is an essential part of a relationship and if one's heart is lying in the hands of third party, well, then that relationship was doomed from the start. And no matter what people around her might think, Molly Hooper does not want her next relationship to be ruined because Sherlock Holmes had her love in his possession and refused to give it back.

The tube jerks into a move and in few minutes Molly will be closer to her home, closer to the warmth and comfort of her bed where she most likely will hide herself between the sheets and weep and weep and weep.

And she will weep because women like Molly Hooper never got their happy endings with men like Sherlock Holmes.

And she will weep because she's still the mousy pathologist who's needed only when there's a case.

And she will weep, because just like it was in the beginning and just like it will be in the end — she won't count. Never had nor ever will.

There are tears welling in her eyes, stubbornly clinging to her coated eyelashes, threatening to fall and smear her make up, show her lack of strength, display to everyone just how tired of the heartache she was. However, she's stubborn enough, she won't cry until she's in the safety of her home; she won't shed a tear in front of all the people sitting in the tube, waiting to return to their families and loved ones, return to the warmth of the hearth in their house.

It's a bit of a longer ride than Molly expects, but she blames it on the constant thoughts whirling in her mind. ( She shouldn't. No matter what thoughts plague her mind, the ride always feels the same ) She blames it on the heartache and how it seemed to stretch seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. But finally the doors of the carriage whooshes open and she steps out, wrapping her arms tighter around her body and curling herself deeper into the warmth of her jacket.

The pain ridden mind prevents her from seeing the palpable around her; her eyes focused on the road as far as the tip of her nose goes ( _Molly you see, but you never observe_ ). Yes, the woman doesn't observe that there was an unusual lack of people surrounding. And she doesn't notice a lone figure walking just behind her, clear eyes fixed on her back intently.

Well, she notices eventually, but by that time it's too late.

By that time she has a cloth pressed to her face, ether hitting her nostrils in the overly familiar stench and her eyes fly wide open with distress. And she tried to squirm and fight and get away from the grasp of what Molly suspected to be a tall, muscular man, much stronger than her and only too capable of holding down a 5'3" woman who, sadly, had no knowledge of any self-defense techniques whatsoever. And she screamed, tears finally allowed to escape from behind her eyelids. No one heard her, no one was around to hear actually. The carriage was emptied out in the previous stop and she just didn't notice, too occupied with her own self-loathing.

Few kicks into the empty air, another scream muffled by the cloth and a river of tears sliding down her cheekbones and any resistance, whether it was created by her body or her mind was only too quickly gone, her frame slumping into the arms of the man and eyelids drooping closed.

Darkness was the only thing she saw from that moment on. Utter and complete darkness in which she could shout and scream and curse. No one heard her, no one _could_ hear her. A sightless sleep had taken over her entire body, making her frame heavy and limp, to be done with as someone pleased. This was not good. Not good at all.

She should've been invisible. Not a target, _never_ the target. Never someone to use as a blackmail. After all, she had no one in her life. No family, no friends, no lovers. No one that could potentially care about her.

Just a mousy pathologist, Molly Hooper who never feared a dead man and never, ever got over her love for the world's only consulting detective.

Molly Hoopers of this world do not get captured.

Why? Because Molly Hoopers of this word do not count.

And yet she was starting to doubt that.

* * *

Sherlolly swooped into my life unexpectedly and been on my mind for quite some time now. It's such a tragically beautiful relationship and I couldn't help but to get my hands on it and see what my imagination will come up for this ship. This is the first time I ever test my abilities in Sherlock field so forgive me if I don't get all of the terminology or names right. Any constructive criticism is more than welcome.

Also, this is going to be very much angst and drama filled. I live for darker fics.

This fic should be updated at least once a week. If I have my schedule and muse under control, new chapters might appear even faster. Although I have yet to decide how long I want this fic to be, it shouldn't be more than fifteen chapters, I think.

 _Reviews are greatly appreciated!_

 **Mondy x**

* * *

I have nothing to do with BBC's take on Sherlock neither the characters created by Arthur C. Doyle. I'm merely borrowing the characters to have some fun.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes a lot for her to wake up; most likely the dose poured onto the handkerchief was too much and pressed too firmly into her face, she might have possibly inhaled much more than her robbers counted for. The effort to wake up is however not made by Molly, if anything the silent darkness after some time ended up being quite comfortable. There was no heartache there, no self-hatred or hurting words. Only nothingness — no thoughts, no words, no sounds, no images. Absolutely nothing. It was as though a blessing to her overworked mind.

She can hear it more than feel it, a sound of a rough slap echoing in the place where she apparently was. And then slowly but surely tingling pain crawls up her cheek, especially on one stop in particular and after a moment or two Molly can feel warmth pooling up. So there was a ring adoring the hand that slapped her and it cut through the sensitive skin of her cheekbone.

And yet Molly's eyelids are far too heavy and refuses to reveal her dark brown eyes. Her head is hung low, chin nearly touching the sternum as a deep inhale of breath heaves her chest, making her shoulders rise and fall. It's a signal that she's awake, even if her eyes aren't open — apparently that doesn't sit well with her abductor and soon another slap soundly echoes in the room, whirling her head to the side. This time a hiss breaks through her lips and she manages to raise her gaze. In the chocolate darkness of her pupils no longer resides happiness and curiosity and love like it used to before this day. Like it used to despite so many times of being stomped on with a sole of a shoe. There was always, _always_ happiness and hope in her eyes. But now? There's anger, there's hatred, and there's pain. Most of the emotions Molly never expected to be able of feeling and yet there she was. Burning with fury and controlling her own shy tongue as best as she could in order not to release a round of swears and make her situation even worse.

She's not one of those heroines from the movies that could spit their abductors in the eye and still get away with their hair still intact and their thigh-high nylon socks not torn up at the seams.

Clear blue eyes glared back at her, strands of dirty blonde hair sticking to his forehead. There was a muscle twitching in the bulky man's jaw, indicating his irritation and lack of patience. And yet despite all of that there was a wicked smile; well, more sneer than smile shaping his lips. For a moment Molly thought that the man would be positively handsome if not for all the hatred that clouded attractive features.

Well, she wouldn't be Molly Hooper if she didn't think attractive someone who was a sociopath. She had long admitted to herself that it was just her type. Men that could never feel the same about her was like a light and she was as thoguh bug constantly trying to touch it; to feel its warmth only to crash and burn.

That doesn't mean that she wanted to find herself in her captor's bed rather than what wherever she was now, god _no_. Just to herself she was stating facts plain and clear like she's used to when recording data about post-mortems. And data right now was that the man who hit her twice already was handsome. _Pity._

"Rise and shine, Molly Hooper." The man all but sneers at her. It's a rough voice; hoarse and most likely affected by years of smoking. Sadly, she was not as good as Sherlock when it came to deducing a person's life story, yet she could tell the tell-tale signs of nicotine damage. Most of people who lived with chronic smokers could, actually.

Whatever the reason for such a growling voice was, it frightened her. Gone in two seconds was the fire igniting brown hues and panic was taking over; utter and naked fear.

"What do you w-want from me?" An attempt at sounding strong came to a fail when her voice broke in the middle of her question, getting quieter and more like a squeak of a mouse.

With a quiver settling beneath her skin Molly watches as the man crouches down in front of her, large hand roughly cupping her face, fingers digging into the skin and getting a nice wince from the brunette woman.

"From you? Nothing. You're just a bait. You're part of the game."

"What game?"

On one hand it shouldn't be anything surprising. Nowadays all villains of London wanted to do was to play a game, leave clues for the world's only consulting detective, make it harder for him to track the criminals down, tougher to save the chosen victims. It's gotten boring over time. There's no better mind than the one of Sherlock Holmes and Molly have already lost count of how many times criminals tried and failed at beating Sherlock in their own games.

On another hand, however. This was something new. Definitely something new because never before was Molly, the insignificant pathologist of Bart's hospital was chosen to be the victim. In any game she played a minor role of no role at all and now — one she was one of the main characters in a story that she doubted she wanted any part of. And one might ask why? Well, probably because her knight in shining armor won't come to rescue her. Her knight was too busy receiving texts from someone who's message sound was a rather erotic moan. She heard at least a couple of those before she left the boys' flat and ended up in this mess.

"A very simple game. Sherlock took someone away from me, so I wanted to take someone from him in return. He has two weeks to complete the game. If he doesn't, you're dead." Oh that spark of spite in steel blue eyes, that clear hatred that was fueled by it all. Molly couldn't help but wonder just exactly whom the blond man lost. And she also couldn't help but wonder why was he stupid enough to a) give Sherlock so much time and b) take her as a hostage.

"He has two clues of total. One is left in your house. An insignificant one; he won't even find it if he's never been to your place. As for the second clue — you are it. And you're missing. I wonder how long will it take for him to catch on that his pathologist is missing. A day? Two?" Eyebrows shoot up and fall down on the man's face with each question, sneer on his lips forming more and more into a delighted grin. Positively mad that man was. _Pity indeed._

She opens her mouth to say something, to ask a question but before she could form even a syllable her face is forcefully jerked back with a push as he releases her head with a grunt. Only when her arms start to flail so she could catch her balance on the chair does Molly realize that she was indeed not tied down to it. Odd, usually the captured people are tied down, they are —

She doesn't even have the time to finish her thought as she's pushed onto the ground. Shoulder collides with the solid cement of the floor just like her hip, head from the impact lulling back and forth with forces before also receiving quite a hit. And then there is a blow; _no_ — two, three delivered to her belly all of them leaving her breathless, making her gasp like a suffocating fish taken out of the water. And again the shoed foot collides with her abdomen with quite the force and Molly can only pray that he's not leaving too much a damage and that he won't cut that month too short.

"As for you," the man begins and the tip of a perfectly polished end of his shoe pushes against her cheek, forcing an eye contact between both parties. It's clear that he's enjoying this. "With every day you'll be beaten more and given less food and water. And who knows, maybe by the end of it I'll be the hungry one."

Just the thought of what he meant with that innuendo makes her shiver and she released a yelp, strangled and pained when he kicks her in the ribs, bruising at least one of them.

There are tears in her eyes, falling freely, streaking down into the tresses of her brown hair.

From the corner of her eye she sees the man leave, close the door and turn off the light. She's in utter darkness. It was welcoming before, when she was drugged, but now not so much. She's too aware of her pain, too aware of every single thought.

No way to tell the time, no way to tell if she'll get a glass of water or some food. No way to tell if there will be another meeting with her captor or not. She's stuck in darkness and in silence; left to wonder, left to think and think and think.

Slowly, oh so slowly as to not make any more injuries for herself, Molly pushes herself into a crawling position and through darkness she searches for a bed. She saw one before, from the corner of her eye as her head was pushed by the man's boot. It takes some time but she finds it, even less elegantly than she imagined to do. Her forehead bumps against the metal body of the bed quite forcefully and she winces at even more pain running through her nerve system. At least she's given the ability to move. At least.

Climbing her way into the bed seemed quite a task but once it's completed and her pants have lessened she stops her breathing altogether for a moment to see if she would be able to hear anything. _Observe, Molly, observe!_ She tells herself in her mind over and over again, yet no sound comes to her attention. Just darkness and silence.

At first she tries to keep herself entertained as best as possible. Muttering the alphabet back and forth. The same exercise but with periodic table. She watched enough of midnight tele to know that darkness and isolation can seriously damage a person's mind. Thoughts is what could possibly ruin one permanently.

So she does anything but to think of Sherlock. She tries her best not to think that at least a few days will pass until they notice her absence from her work. And even then it will most likely will be her colleagues, then Lestrade and only then John and Sherlock.

Perhaps her captor was a clever little arse after all. Molly was insignificant to Sherlock enough for him to waste precious time in finding her. Especially if there was a case of better importance. This was six at most, not enough to leave the home. But she was, as any other person in any other situation a living human being and if her life will be taken away because Sherlock couldn't solve a puzzle it will leave some impact on him, even if it won't be too permanent.

Molly knows that she shouldn't think of things like this; it will drive her closer to the edge of madness, it will do more harm than good to both her body and mind. But it's hard to resist when every single issue, every single insecurity crawled out of the dark and under her skin, screaming to be remembered, to be overthought.

 _You matter, Molly, you do. You always counted. Criminals don't play games with people of insignificance, remember that._ She tries, oh god does she try to keep that mantra up in her mind, keep it alive and going over and over.

But comments of her incompetence, or her average attractiveness, or her poor conversational skills above all others resurface. And as time ticks away in slow paces that mantra is exchanged with the other; the one which made her ribs hurt all the more and heart ache with every thud of the rhythm. _Shut up, Molly. Don't speak, Molly. Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

Curled up on the small cot is how she falls asleep, knees drawn up to her chest and arms tightly wrapped around them to keep the warmth from escaping the body as well as keeping safe her vital organs, her back to the wall. Dried tears leaving tracks on her cheeks, smeared make up creating a mess on her face. She's small and insignificant to the world.

She's nothing.

To some, at least.

Because on the other side of London a certain consulting detective, the only one in the world, was already raising a fuss in St. Bartholomew's in search of one Molly Hooper.

* * *

Okay, so I couldn't stop myself from posting another chapter this soon. Since I've got work for the entire week and most likely be able to focus only a bit on this fanfic, I decided that right now would be the perfect time to post this. Hopefully, since I'll be working with a computer, I'll be able to write something, even if without posting.  
Do forgive my mistakes, I'm the only one who's checking them before posting. If anyone would be interested in being a Beta for this story however, do write me.

 _Reviews are greatly appreciated_

 **Mondy x.**

* * *

I have nothing to do with BBC's take on Sherlock neither the characters created by Arthur C. Doyle. I'm merely borrowing the characters to have some fun.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes was not a man that had infinite amounts of patience in his lean body, especially when the use of his patience was directed at something that was not a case above six. And now he was presented with an eight.

Of course, his impatience was directed at the person he promised himself to not be rude towards — one certain Molly Hooper.

But he was just too excited for an eight and her giddiness was not something he could tolerate at that moment. Questions about what was going on, whether he already solved the mysterious crime and if there's anything she could do to help him with were appreciate but not needed at the time; not when his mind was buzzing and whirling with other pressing matters at hand.

He's not even surprised with himself when he rushes her out of the apartment without much of exchanged niceties, holding out her coat for her even if his own was still adoring his frame.

He did wince at her colder goodbye, so different from the warm and friendly one Watson received, but by the time the grimace appeared on his face, her back was already turned to him, steps taking her down the stairs and out of the flat.

And he did hear it from John. The scolding and reminder of whom exactly he was being rude towards.

"You should've at least offered her a cuppa." By the end of the tirade John gives in with a tired sigh, knowing that it was quite useless to argue with Sherlock when he was already clearly focused on a case. It's doubtful that the consulting detective even heard half of what John was chastising him for, or at least that's what he thought.

Sherlock indeed have heard every single piece of the tirade, mulling it over in his mind. It's been a bit harder to keep Molly out of his mind and daily life ever since that phone call. They never did talk about it afterwards. He could only suppose that she was not up to more heartbreak, afraid of what he would say and how he would brush it off.

Just like he was aware of her fancying him pretty much since the begging, so she knew that the feelings weren't reciprocated.

The thing was, it took him half a second to realize that the three words she forced him to say first before she did it herself were truth. But Molly most likely believed them to be his brilliant acting skills, his ability to manipulate any situation to fit best for him.

He meant them. He meant that he loved her and she didn't believe it.

Not that he blamed her of course. After pretending to be oblivious to her affection or using it against her for his own selfish needs and letting her down in the gentlest way possible for him she took the clue that the feeling of love would always be unrequited.

And he thought so himself, actually. Up until that point where the united forces of Euros and Molly forced him to speak his deepest feelings out loud, that is.

And he thought and thought and thought about what happened and his newly found feelings, the corner of his mind palace dedicated to the subject expanding into a room the size of a hall. And it infuriated Sherlock to no end. He used to be able to just delete such things, but this seemed like a virus spreading in his mind, stubbornly planting its roots firmly into the ground up until he found the solution on how to fix it all, how to calm down his raging mind and heavily pounding heart.

Just like with everything a case helped him as a distraction. And he didn't want to get distracted from his distraction by having Molly Hooper too close to him for too long. Complicated, yes he was aware, but then again, when wasn't anything about him complicated?

Sherlock grumbles under his breath when he catches his mind drifting back to the brunette pathologist instead of focusing on two murders. Two victims, apparently having no relation to each other whatsoever were beaten to death and left on random alley ways. One was found a month ago, the other two weeks back. No handprints, no data left. Nothing, but two weeks old bruises and death cause of broken ribs piercing through lungs. One thing was left with the victims though. Stuffed into the mouths of the victims were handkerchiefs with traces of ether on them. That was what eventually got him to look into the murders.

A serial killer. Delightful, in the most honest sense of the word. However, the time lapse between the victims' appearing was a bit too long. He wanted to figure this out sooner, but left clues were not enough, even for him.

Both of the bodies were identified by their fingerprints. Both of them from east end of London. That was the only connection the two victims had. Age difference twenty three years, one was a homeless bloke and the other was a well-paid accountant with husband and two kids. Types of dirt found on their shoes were asphalt, cement, sand and black soil. Hardly any narrowing down could be done with this, especially considering that pretty much wherever you go in the entire London, you can have same dirt stick to your shoes. Of course, he could have easily identified from which part of London exactly the soil was, but he wasn't able to do that. Why?

Because worst of all, he only had Lestrade's and Anderson's reports to fall upon. They could've missed so much, so bloody much, those two idiots.

Frustration with this case was higher than the fascination at this point.

The first body that they found did not interest Sherlock too much; second one he had no access to since instead of Molly Hooper one of her colleagues were working. And after one of his deductions that he simply could not keep behind his teeth, whenever that female was working in the morgue and lab, he was hardly even allowed into Bart's. And that woman worked fast; all of the bodies that were delivered to her were taken care of and wheeled out long before her shift ended.

Tonight Lestrade thought that there was another one of that type of killing. Bloody, beaten body found in a street. Sherlock's excitement was peaked to the highs, but upon arriving to the crime scene he was hugely disappointed. It was just a random beaten up person. No handkerchief in mouth and clearly visible fingerprints. Anderson, the idiot that he was, didn't check for it, assuming that it should be one of the victims since exactly two weeks had passed. And it seemed like a legitimate blood on face and bruises on ribs were good enough of an excuse for Anderson to call Sherlock in.

He was frustrated indeed.

So there he was, sitting in his armchair, seemingly frozen as he tried to figure out the murders without being unable to look at the evidence with his own two eyes.

All details provided to him were visible within the eye of his mind, right in front of him. Fingers straight and steepled under his chin, electric gaze moving around yet seeing nothing of his surroundings, only what his mind was creating. How to catch a murderer that left ordinary trails and clues behind themselves?

A sleepless night followed with Sherlock stuck in the same position, eyelids dropping into a blink every minute or so, mind relentlessly working. And then a ring.

It didn't shake him out of his reverie; John was the one to pick up the phone, already awake and with Rosie perched on his hip, watching her father with curious eyes of a baby.

"Sherlock we have to go. There's another one." John's voice, solemn and dark rang in the room, but Sherlock apparently didn't hear it.

"Sherlock! There was another murder!" Another, louder exclaim, nearly a shout really and the consulting detective jumped in his place, blinking rapidly before focusing his attention on his best friend.

"Let's get going then." Without missing a single beat Sherlock jumped out of his seat, tossing the silk blue dressing gown onto the armchair and going to fetch his belstaff coat. He couldn't be bothered to change into a clean set of his typical suits; he was whirling with excitement; high with it.

They arrived at the crime scene before the body was taken into morgue. Just like Lestrade said there were signs of two weeks old bruises, but no hair, no nothing. A clean body with a clean set of closing. Well as clean as it can be with the dried blood sticking to the victim's shirt and jeans. Mouth closed and only a small corner of the handkerchief was visible before the lips were forced open.

Ether. There was ether once more on the cloth. Another fallen victim to the serial killer who remained unknown.

Looked at with naked eye, it was obvious that the killer was meticulous, even if the cause of death seemed like a lash out of a man who couldn't control his own rage. However, he was more than sure that after using a lab, he could get so much more answers than the entire troops of police could tell him.

The crime scene was utterly empty. Seemingly the dead body was simply dropped off at the location; playground of Harry Gosling Primary School.

Oh. _Oh._

The first victim, according to Lestrade, was found in Durward Street near the low brick wall by the old Boarding School. Second one found by the Old Truman Brewery.

Or, speaking in Victorian terms Buck's Row, Hanbury Street (or rather number 39's backyard) and Berner Street, Dutfield's Yard.

"Boring." A low grumble was heard from the consulting detective as he rose from the crouching position, pushing his magnifier shut and into the pocket of his coat before fixing its lapels, making them stand up.

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see John roll his own and release an exasperated huff, but Sherlock chose to ignore that part.

"Please enlighten us, why did this become boring?" Much like the huff, John's words carried the same emotion, arms folded across his chest and he stared at the taller, leaner man, gentle cloudy blue eyes now staring with both expectation and bemusement.

"Oh no, the case itself is not boring. How the murderer managed to leave no visible traces on the bodies whatsoever is fascinating. As his way of killing them. Brutal."

"His?"

"Obviously. Look at the faded bruise —an imprint of a hand left on the victim's throat. The size of the hand is too big to be the one of a woman's. And he was working with gloves, latex ones, most likely. But his placement of bodies after he's through with them is boring. All of the three victims were placed around the areas were the 'canonical' murders of Jack the Ripper took place."

It was Lestrade who spoke up next, crease deep in the line of his brow and lips set into a tight line.

"So the next victim should be dropped off in Mitre Square?"

"Very good, detective. You know your history." A smile shaped Sherlock's face, one that didn't reach his eyes and only made the sarcasm dripping from his mouth all the more evident. "However, I highly doubt that you are willing to wait another two weeks, judging from the time span between the other appearances of victims — as well as the age of their wounds — for the murderer to just drop off the fourth one and then catch him."

Whatever Lestrade was about to say, he thought against it, watching as the body was raised from where it laid, to be taken to Bart's morgue.

"So, Molly Hooper?"

The question brought a more genuine smile to Sherlock's features and he nodded, putting on his gloves. Since it was Molly's shift that day it meant that he was going to be granted unlimited access to whatever he wished for in both morgue and laboratory. Finally, the real inspection was about to begin.

"Molly Hooper."

* * *

I kNOW I KNOW, I haven't given away yet just how big of a storm Sherlock will cause in Bart's. There are two reasons for that — I want to keep the chapters around the same length and I've constantly hit walls with this chapter and had to rewrite it a couple of times and I still think that this is not my best one yet. It might've had to do with the fact that I had to write this while tired after work. Hopefully you all still enjoyed it. Next update will be fairly soon. Also thanks every single one of you for your feedback! It means a ton and I wish I could reply to you all privately, but I fear that I might spoil some things if I do it oops.

 **Mondy x**

 _Reviews are always appreciated!_

* * *

I have nothing to do with BBC's take on Sherlock neither the characters created by Arthur C. Doyle. I'm merely borrowing the characters to have some fun.


	4. Chapter 4

There would be a bloody awful lot of paperwork to sort through before Molly could even get her hands on the body. So, there had been nothing for it, they'd had to return home until she'd been given the chance to trudge through all the necessary, albeit dull, paperwork

After an unveiled remark from John on the state of his personal hygiene – "You're beginning to stink of sweat, Sherlock…. You know, smell … Badly!" Sherlock finally made his way to the bath much to the relief of John's nose.

Whilst Sherlock took it upon himself to take a quick shower, John sat skimming through that day's paper. He was curious to see what was happening out in the rest of the world that didn't involve serial killers beating his victims to a pulp. He did, after all, have the time for it. It would take a bit for Sherlock to complete his daily ablutions, and they would most certainly be heading to Barts shortly afterward.

John was enjoying a read through of the sport's section when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom. A pristine pair of black trousers and a purple button-down now adorned the lean frame of his friend, his blue dressing gown finished off the ensemble, the matching jacket of his trousers was flung over the crook of his arm.

Clearly, the world's only consulting detective was opting for comfort over style for the time-being. Giving his paper a sharp flick, John figured that Sherlock would be donning his suit jacket soon enough, so why shouldn't his friend be at ease while twiddling his thumbs in unbridled anticipation of viewing the newest addition awaiting them in the bowels of Barts Hospital.

A subtle glint in the vicinity of Sherlock's wrist caught John's eye, his fair brows shot up high on his creased forehead. Cuff links! Sherlock never wore cuff links! As a matter of fact, John wasn't sure his best mate even owned a set other than the pair he'd received from a grateful client and those were now in his own possession. Of course Sherlock was excited by this new case, exceedingly so, but excited enough to wear cuff links?! He thought about it for a moment or two, then made the decision to not comment on the mysterious reasoning behind their presence.

Focusing on the stats of the latest football game was difficult since Sherlock persisted in moving restlessly from place to place, the hem of his robe billowing around him as he turned sharply this way and that; back and forth over and over again until John was almost dizzy. He wasn't overly surprised when a mere quarter of an hour later, Sherlock informed him that they'd given the clean-up crew ample time to transport the latest victim to the morgue.

Molly would wait for them before beginning the autopsy, they both knew this. She was fully aware of Sherlock's particular interest because John had told her of this case nearly a week ago. Sherlock was fervently hoping that she'd used the last week wisely by going through Ruth Causey's notes and paperwork on the previous victim.

It would be very helpful indeed if she had managed it although Sherlock held out little hope on Molly finding anything of real value. In the consulting detective's opinion, Ruth Causey – 'that most abhorrent female' – was a third rate pathologist at best and felt he was being fairly generous on that score. Still, Sherlock was holding out hope that Molly might find something of importance in Causey's paperwork.

The ride to Barts was not a rushed affair. John breathed out a long sigh his gaze traveling toward his friend. He could glimpse something akin to satisfaction and excitement. At first, he brushed off that idea as moronic and illogical, but upon reflecting on whom he was dealing with, the doctor decided that his deductions weren't too far-fetched. After all, the man in speaking was Sherlock Holmes; a self-proclaimed sociopath. A high-functioning one, mind you, who was obviously thrilled by the idea of a serial killer. The prospect of a case that he would be able to sink his claws fully into once they had access to the body was, no doubt, a much needed boost to his mood. He was just glad that Mrs. Hudson had good-naturedly agreed to take care of Rosie while they were away. Somehow he felt like this was going to be one long, long day.

Upon arriving, everything seemed to be quite normal and right with world of St. Bartholomews' Hospital. The staff buzzed around willy-nilly completing their various tasks like they would on any other given day. Ignoring all the hustling and bustling, the pair went straight to the morgue where the corpse of the latest victim should be laid out on a slab by now. Sherlock wanted to give the body a good going over before the autopsy and John could tell that he was practically frothing at the mouth in gleeful anticipation.

Following closely behind the consulting detective, John barely got one foot through the door before Sherlock came to an abrupt halt causing him to nearly crash into the taller man. Confused by his actions, John stepped around his friend only to be greeted by the annoyed face of Ruth Causey.

John let out an almost inaudible groan. Perfect, just perfect. Out of the four pathologists they generally worked with at Barts, they just had to end up with the one who despised Sherlock with a passion. Brilliant. To be fair to her, all of the in-house pathologists—with the exception of Molly—despised Sherlock but Ruth Causey despised his friend with an ungodly gusto.

Sherlock had always brushed aside her clear animosity towards him by claiming that the only reason for her disdain was because his mind was far superior to her own. John knew him too well to believe that it was as simple as that. More than likely, it had been one too many deductions that had hit far too close to home which now caused Doctor Causey to glower and nearly growl every time she saw the consulting detective. Of course, John also knew that this particular pathologist had already developed a great distaste for Sherlock long before she'd met the man himself.

Glancing quickly at Sherlock, the shorter man was startled by what he saw gracing his silent friends' visage. It was a rare occasion to see such emotion carved into Sherlock's pale face. Was John used to annoyance? Yes. Irritation? No doubt. Anger? Sometimes that too. But raw rage? It really took one quite the effort to inflict such a feeling on his friend let alone have the ability to actually make it show on Sherlock's aristocratic features; it was this which surprised John most of all.

"What are you doing here?" The hissed question fell out of Sherlock's mouth, breaking up the tense atmosphere.

"I could ask the same of you," was the woman's caustic reply.

"Where's Molly?" Sherlock demanded, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "It's her shift today, not yours."

Glaring at at the offensive berk, she retorted huffily, "She didn't come to work today, so I was called in to replace her."

Speaking slowly, as if the pathologist were a half-wit, Sherlock bit out quietly, "What. Do. You. Mean."

Face twisting with anger, she spat out waspishly, "What could I mean, you bloody idiot? Simple answer short, Dr. Hooper didn't show up. Must've gotten ill or some such thing."

The two adversaries glared at each other with obvious hatred while the third party stared at the them with no expression. Nothing to worry about; same old, same old with these two dolts. Rivalry and idiocy kept them constantly at each other's' throats. John was used to this. Just another day at the office. What he wasn't used to was Molly not showing up at work with no sort of explanation. It went completely against Molly's character as an exemplary and dependable employee.

"She didn't look ill when I saw her last night, you blasted woman," Sherlock barked, nostril flaring. "I would have noticed the tell-tale signs of impending sickness!"

Sherlock's mobile appeared in his hand, nimble fingers flew over the keyboard, dialing what John assumed was Molly's number. A few moments later, John heard the faint sound of Molly's voice-mail ordering whoever was calling to leave a message after the tone. With a huff, Sherlock redialed the number only to be greeted with a recording once more.

Arms set akimbo over her midriff, the unwanted pathologist, asked snidely, "Think we didn't try to bloody call her ourselves? We're not as stupid as you like to make us out to be. Now, get out of here before I call security on your arse!"

"If you so much as touch that body before I return," Sherlock declared, pointing at the stiff, "I swear to God, Causey I will tear you apart."

Smirking victoriously, Causey declared, "You don't get to give out orders around here. I'm not your lap-dog pathologist." John winced. She was referring to Molly, of course. Sherlock all but had steam coming out of his ears. "You won't get free reign nor access to this morgue as long as I'm holding the scalpel"

John prepared for the inevitable almighty backlash of one Sherlock Holmes, but it never came. He watched in stupefaction as his friend turned around and with wide strides marched out of the room. Trailing after him, he wondered just exactly where they were headed.

Without knocking, or in any other way signaling his arrival, Sherlock burst into Mike Stamford's office. To give the older man credit, Mike didn't bat an eye at the unscheduled intrusion and seemed oblivious to the naked fury on his friend's patrician countenance.

"Why is Molly not here today," the consulting detective demanded, palms slamming flat on top of Mike's desk.

Clearly, the bloke must have learned how to deal with Sherlock's tantrums because he simply righted every little object which had fallen over at the strength of the assault on its hapless, dark surface before saying calmly, "Ask her. She didn't call in and when I tried to reach her, I met with no luck."

John noticed that Sherlock still held his mobile and that the face was lit up with Molly's name flashing across the screen. John wasn't overly surprised that he was still trying to reach her, but from the look of things, his attempts remained unsuccessful.

"Why," Sherlock bit out through clenched teeth, "has no one been dispatched to her flat to check on her well-being?" Before Stamford could reply, Sherlock rapidly fired off several possible scenarios, none of which were pleasant. "She might have slipped in the bath, and currently be unconscious and bleeding. She may have inadvertently severed an artery while slicing up a lemon for her morning tea! Her cat might have turned feral and attacked her; rabies needs treated immediately or death is almost certainly assured!"

Sherlock's voice kept rising in decibel until he was nearly on the verge of screaming and Mike was finally beginning to look a bit rattled by this unusual display. John couldn't really blame him, this side of his friend was a completely unknown factor to most people.

It all made John wonder, for a brief moment, if Sherlock's concern for Molly might have overshadowed the fascinating new case (according to Sherlock), with the fascinating new murder victim (according to Sherlock), lying on a cold slab a few floors below. A body, which no doubt was all ready on the receiving end of Ruth's knife and rib-cracker. John was silently commending his friends' newly found sensitive nature until…

"The worst," Sherlock raged, "The absolute worst of it is that you have Causey taking Molly's place! Causey, of all people?! You are perfectly aware of the fact that she has no bloody respect for my expertise and that damnable women won't let me in the morgue, let alone near a body! "

"Well, you brought that on yourself, Sherlock," Mike placidly pointed out. "Deducing her at your first meeting, and finding her wanting both professionally and personally, might not have been a wise course of action. Is it any wonder that she isn't exactly chomping at the bit to hear anything you might have to say?"

Ignoring Mike's question, Sherlock leaned in closer and spoke with chilling intensity,"Unless you want another person's death on your conscience, I strongly suggest that you do something about that woman and permit me to do my job by letting me examine the fucking body."

Looking nervous for the first time since this little exchange began, Mike patiently explained, "You know how she is, Sherlock. She's one of my best employees and she's already warned me that if I let you near her, the morgue, or the bodies that she will quit on the spot. No notice, nothing. I can't afford to lose any of my pathologists."

Straightening up, the curly haired man fixed his coat, pushing the lapels up around a face that clearly spoke of good breeding and refinement.

"Very well," Sherlock murmured. Mike's anxious demeanor eased a bit, but John knew the other shoe was about to drop: hard!

"Were you aware that my brother happens to be close friends' with several members of this hospital's Board of Directors?"

Mike paled, visibly beginning to sweat.

In a voice smooth as silk, Sherlock added, "I'm confident that the next time Mycroft indulges in drinks at Diogenes with said directors, a hint or two will be dropped as to what, and who, might be best for this fine hospital."

John chuckled humorlessly while shaking his head. Sherlock really was playing hardball here and he was going to use the nastiest card up his sleeve: blackmail. If Mycroft had known what his little brother had stooped to, he would have preened like a proud papa.

Ice-blue eyes gleaming, Sherlock took the blade and drove it home by adding, "Personnel and Directors notwithstanding, I'm sure that you're aware that the extra funding and generous donations made to this most auspicious establishment can be withdrawn post-haste if certain high-ranking individuals should find themselves on the receiving end of an angry tirade."

Mike nervously ran a forefinger across his clammy brow, hesitated a moment, then stood. Clearing his throat, he straightened the spectacles perched on his nose before saying in a beleaguered fashion, "Follow me, if you please."

And, just like that, Sherlock won. Money and power ruled almost every aspect of people's' lives and, if used correctly, they could be powerful pressure points if need be. Sherlock knew this, of course, and had still made the choice to callously mash and pulverize poor Mike into submission. Once again, John thought of how gratified Mycroft would have been if he could have seen this little tableau for himself.

Before exiting the room after Mike's retreating figure, Sherlock thrust a single key into John's hand and said under his breath, "Go to Molly's flat and she if she's there."

Was that worry, John saw reflected in Sherlock's eyes? Indeed it was! Worry and concern… for Molly! Would wonders never cease?

"Yeah, no problem," John agreed while pocketing the key. "I'm sure she's fine, mate. Probably having a lie-in and just forgot to let anyone know."

His friend did not look convinced.

* * *

Traffic was a right royal bitch, so it took far longer than John would've liked for his driver to traverse the roads, although it did give him ample opportunity to re-hash in his head everything that had happened back at Barts. The unmitigated concern and turmoil that Sherlock had exhibited after learning of Molly's absence had been extraordinary. Extraordinary because of the startling and utterly unexpectedness of the whole thing.

Whilst John Watson was many things, a willfully blind man, he was not. To his mind, Sherlock's uncharacteristic behavior smacked of, dare he think it? Sentiment. It all made John reflect back to those rare, odd occasions when Molly would say something that Sherlock seemed to find amusing; his lips would twitch just the slightest and there'd be an uncommonly soft look on his face as he gazed at her. So, yeah, his friend was fond of the woman; I mean, after all, she was sweet and kind. It would be natural to want to protect such a defenseless, tiny creature.

John chuckled. Slight of form Molly might be, but she sure could pack a wallop when circumstances called for it. His own cheek had stung in sympathy from just watching as she'd delivered those three well deserved blows to Sherlock's slack features. The fierceness in her normally warm, chocolate brown eyes had taken them all aback. This was the Molly who called Sherlock out on his shite and demanded that he make reparations to those who cared for him.

Then, there was the enigma known as Irene Adler. Sherlock had totally belied his self-administered reputation by shutting down completely when he'd thought that woman was dead. He'd gone about playing mournful music on his violin at all times of the day or night until John wanted to bash him over the head with the instrument. This led John to believe that she was the one who held Sherlock's hidden heart in her grasp; that if anyone could make Sherlock feel and worry for them, it would have been her. His friend had, quite literally, gone to the ends of the earth for the dominatrix and that right there was saying something.

In comparison, whilst there was no doubting that Sherlock cared for Molly in his own cocked up way, there hadn't ever been anything remotely remarkable about his seemingly tepid regard that John could perceive. Unless he actually needed something, Sherlock basically left her to it. Hell, from what John had seen, his friend often treated Mrs. Hudson better than he ever had Molly. A remarkable feat to be sure considering Martha had a tendency to work on Sherlock's nerves, and John couldn't help but love her all the more for it.

So, what was that back there at Barts, besides utterly confusing? A sudden thought pierced his brain. Could…? Was it possible...? Could Sherlock, all of this time, been actually trying to protect Molly? Was there even the smallest probability that his often nasty attitude was nothing more than an effort to keep Molly at arms length for her own safety? Sherlock did seem to have a perpetual dark cloud of danger looming over his Belstaff covered shoulders, and perhaps he'd wanted to spare Molly; ensure no danger ever affected her or her life. No, no, he was just being daft. Still…

If John were to really put his mind to it, he could definitely conclude that keeping Molly at a distance would be more than beneficial to her health and well-being. Sherlock's life-style, abrasive manner - and this was putting it kindly - peculiar behaviors attracted all sorts of detractors and enemies. First case in point: Jim Moriarty. The crazy fuck who'd put a target on the back of anyone he'd deemed important to Sherlock. A short list, mind you, which hadn't contained a certain female pathologist.

The former soldier scrubbed a hand over his face. This was all just supposition on his part, and well… Sherlock could be a right bastard toward Molly, and that made everyone, not just him, think that she in no way counted. The blighter habitually used her own feelings for him to get his way. All. The. Bloody. Time. Cruelly playing and manipulating the young woman's very real admiration and dedication to his own advantage. No matter how shoddily she'd been treated by his friend, Molly stuck it out; for Sherlock, always for Sherlock.

Most people didn't give the much put-upon woman enough credit. They missed the mark completely because they tended to focus on her unwavering support of the man who was considered to be an outright sociopath. That being the case, Molly's total brilliance as a pathologist and doctor barely warranted a passing glance. Arseholes each and every one of those damned naysayers. Sure, Molly favored some seriously hideous jumpers and loved Toby as if he were a child instead of cat, it didn't lessen her very real contributions to science nor to the cases they'd worked on together.

Fact was, Molly tended to be a bit more at home with dead people rather than with the actual live version. In this point, if not much else, she was very much a kindred spirit with Sherlock. She also tended to lean toward being a tad socially awkward, and Sherlock took socially awkward to a whole new level! Molly also struck John as being horribly solitary since she was without family and had few true friends outside of John's own small circle. Again, very Sherlock-like.

John was jolted out of his thoughts by the cab coming to a sudden, jerky stand-still. After paying the bloody git for the snail-paced and rather jarring ride, he made his way to the front of Molly's flat. It would have been rude to go ahead and use the key Sherlock had given him; he certainly wasn't setting about to scare her witless. Far better to treat it as if she were in residence. Course of action decided, he gave a few sharp raps on the door and waited. John cocked his head and moved closer to the door, listening for the sound of footfalls that never came.

Perhaps she was in the loo, that would most assuredly prevent her from hearing him. He leaned on the doorbell with his thumb, the hollow echoing sound reaching John's ears through the locked barrier before him. Still no one came. Where the bloody hell was she?! After one more impatient, and rather long try at the bell, he was left with no other recourse than to use the key.

Sliding it home, John had to wiggle the small piece of metal a bit before he heard the muffled click signifying the the bolt had unlatched. Ever so cautiously, he peeked around the slight opening he'd created. He wasn't going to go traipsing in like he owned the place, and he certainly didn't want to catch her at a bad moment, his mind imagining all sorts of embarrassing possibilities.

"Hello," He called out. "Molly, it's John. We were worried about you, thought I'd come by to check up, is all."

His brow furrowed in concern when all that greeted him was silence. What if something really had happened to her? Could Sherlock be spot on? Get a hold of yourself, John. The internal reprimand made him feel slightly more calm, no need to go borrowing unnecessary trouble, now was there?

John stepped further into the foyer, eyes darting in every direction, and called out once more, "Molly! I'm coming in!"

Zip. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. No floorboard creaking. No toilet flushing. No water running. Not a damn sound. Just dead silence.

John felt an unwelcome stab of uncertainty, quickly followed by a rolling unease in his gut as he made his way unhindered into Molly's sitting room. The place was immaculate, everything seemed to be in its proper place. John took note of a book-marked medical journal on a table by Molly's chair as he moved on to the adjoining kitchen which was bright and cheery with streams of morning light bathing the entire area. There was nothing here to cause anxiety, yet anxiety was relentlessly nagging at him; eating away at his resolve that all was well.

He began to search the remaining rooms with more urgency, and although he knew in his head that it was pointless, he continued to yell out her name as he opened the doors of her bedroom, en suite bath and guest room respectively. This was crazy, he thought, pure barminess! He threw open the final, closed door of her flat with such force that it actually bounced off the back wall. Although not surprised to find her office vacant, John still felt a horrid sense of disappointment. Molly Hooper was nowhere to be found.

There was nothing else for it, John was going to have to notify Sherlock. Retracing his steps until he was once more in Molly's cozy kitchen, he rifled through the pocket of his jacket until he found his mobile. Clumsy fingers pounded out his friend's' number.

"Come on, come on!" John whispered insistently into the mobile. "Pick up already!"

When all of his continued efforts to reach Sherlock remained fruitless, John glared at the mobile in his hand, tempted to throw the goddamned thing against the nearest hard surface. Sherlock must be tying up the line in his own efforts to contact Molly, the idiotic arse! How the bloody hell is he expected to get back to Sherlock if he's got his bloody thumb on the bloody call button all the bloody time?!

John typed out a quick and concise text message - Quit bloody calling her! - pressing the send button with unneeded ferocity.

Almost immediately, an answering ring emitted from the speaker of his mobile. John hesitated, overcome by an anxious nervousness. Heart pounding, he selected the 'answer' icon and before he had a chance to greet his friend...

"Is she okay, John," Sherlock asked quickly. Not waiting for John's reply, he continued on conversationally, "Obviously, she is. She's overslept after a night of drinking wine and watching crap telly. We must insist that this never happen again. It reflects poorly on Molly and doesn't help us out much either. She..."

John let him prattle on, trying to interrupt every now and again, but his friend wouldn't let him get a word in edgewise. It was almost as if Sherlock didn't want to hear what John had to say. Was Sherlock not giving him the chance to speak because he was worried that he'd confirm Sherlock's fears?

Taking a deep breath, and girding himself for the worst reaction possible, John abruptly blurted out, "Sherlock… she's not here."

* * *

Finally, Sherlock finds out that Molly is missing. Something must be wrong. What will his reaction be? I honestly hope that you all found it enjoyable and that it lived up to the standards. I should update soon, even though my uni started again. The fun is begging.

Also, huge thanks to the lovely **caughtinblackseyes** , my new beta, for helping me out so much with this fanfic! Without her I'd be truly and honestly lost.

Thank you for your warm feedback.

 _And as always, reviews are greatly appreciated._

 **Mondy x**

* * *

I have nothing to do with BBC's take on Sherlock neither the characters created by Arthur C. Doyle. I'm merely borrowing the characters to have some fun.


	5. Chapter 5

**!**

 **Before you get to reading this chapter it is highly advisable that you re-read chapter 4. My lovely beta, caughtinblackseyes,went through it and added some details that are important for this chapter, as well as fixed a lot of my mistakes.**

 **!**

* * *

Stamford had been being stubborn in his refusal to let Sherlock have his way and too much time had already been wasted. For all he knew, that blasted woman had already used her heavy hand to butcher the latest victim; thereby ruining any, and all, clues that it might be harboring. Left with no other alternative, Sherlock had been forced to play dirty. He grimaced. Using such tactics were abhorrent to him, and he took no pride in having forced Stamford into such undignified obedience. But, being left with no other recourse, using all the power he had at his disposal had been necessary; a last resort so to speak.

Mycroft Holmes had been that last resort; the power behind the government. Having to use Mycroft's connections would have been deeply repugnant to Sherlock on a visceral level, but when needs must, well… He was pleased it hadn't come to it. If his brother ever gained knowledge of his almost-need, it would have been used against him relentlessly (he'd, no doubt, be in charge of taking his parents to some god-awful musical upon their next visit) and Mycroft would have crowed on about it for years to come.

Following closely behind the silent and discomposed head of the staff of pathologists, the consulting detective covertly tried Molly's number again, huffing in perturbed manner when nothing resulted from his continued efforts. Trying to squelch the distress brewing in him since noticing her absence, Sherlock whooshed into the morgue with an arrogance akin to a sleek, self-satisfied cat, his shin-length coat billowing after him adding a dramatic touch to his entrance.

Ruth's head snapped up at the interruption, over her shoulder grey eyes met those of her boss and then quickly flicked to Sherlock and then back to Mike again; her gaze both curious and wary.

"Ruth," Stamford addressed her in a calm, collected tone, "If you would be so kind as to allow Mister Holmes to check the body before you begin the post-mortem, please."

The woman in question, lowered her already poised scalpel and swiftly straightened up, surprise evident on her youthful features. "Is this a joke, Mike?" She asked, her voice clipped and cold. "I've already told you that I won't work with him!"

Only Sherlock noticed the small beads of nervous perspiration breaking out on Mike's forehead. The man clearly did not want to go toe-to-toe with one of his most trusted employees, but also knew what was at stake if he went against the taller man standing at his side. While Causey shot silent, metaphorical daggers at him, Sherlock hit the speed dial on the mobile resting in his coat pocket, hoping that this time, Molly would answer.

"Ruth…" Mike began, looking conciliatory but trying to sound firm.

"NO!" The woman cut him off in her obnoxious voice."Get that pathetic excuse of a man out of here before I get a restraining order!"

"Oh, please," Sherlock drawled derisively.

Causey turned on him, red-tinted lips twisted into a snarl, "What did you _do_ , Holmes?! How the bloody hell did you convince Mike to let you in here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sneered back at her before asking, "What will you do next in this little tantrum of yours? Stomp your foot in a childish manner? Fly into a rage? Run home crying to mummy? How absolutely dull and uninspiring of you." Shrugging his shoulder in a negligent manner, he added, "I must confess to being unsurprised; you _reek_ of ordinary."

Causey let out a guttural growl and lunged at Sherlock, knife in hand. The consulting detective stood his ground. Mike let out a, "Holy shite, Ruth!" Intercepting her before anything of a serious nature could occur that would ruin her career forever.

Breathing heavily, Causey wrestled herself out of Stamford's hold and muttered shakily, "Sorry about that, Mike. Forgot the damned scalpel was in my hand. Don't know what came over me."

"Sentiment. Emotion. Stupidity" Sherlock deadpanned. "Take your pick."

"You can just shut it, Sherlock," Mike barked. The other man raised an enquiring brow. "You will be permitted to examine the body, but I won't tolerate you inciting my employees to violence! Stop baiting her!"

The consulting detective gave a brief nod of agreement while pressing on his mobile's dial button again.

Addressing the flustered woman, Stamford said, "You don't have to assist him. Frankly, I'd prefer that you didn't." Patting her soothingly on the upper arm, he suggested quietly,"Go on now and take your break."

Causey threw her boss a small but grateful smile while cleaning up her station and removing her safety equipment. She gave Sherlock a wide berth and was nearly out the door when Stamford called after her.

"And Ruth, I'd like to be clear on one other point, if you _ever_ raise an instrument to Sherlock, or any other living person, I will boot your arse outta here so fast it'll make your head spin. Understood?"

Sherlock was impressed. He had never heard Stamford sound so stern and assertive.

Causey's shoulders slumped but she managed to say in a defeated whisper, "Yes, sir."

Satisfaction at the thwarted woman's exit was difficult for Sherlock to contain or hide adequately; his well-schooled features remained intact, but he failed miserably at keeping the corners of his mouth from turning up. Stamford noticed.

Turning on Sherlock, he bit out, "Damn you, Sherlock, was that really necessary? I've _never_ seen Ruth like that before, never!" Throwing his arms up in the air, he prophesied angrily, "I'll more than likely have to send her home for the rest of the day! I'm already short-staffed what with Molly out too! " The older man groaned. "The paperwork alone..."

Remorse was an emotion relatively foreign to Sherlock, but he felt a stab of it as he looked at Mike's tight, distressed face. The man had been a boon to the consulting detective for quite awhile now. Allowing him nearly limitless access to the morgue and Molly's expertise, had been but one of the ways he'd improved Sherlock's life. Without the shorter man, he never would have met John Watson.

"My apologies, Mike if I've put you in an untenable position."

Stamford blinked. Astonishment and apprehension warring with each other. Sherlock couldn't, in all honesty, blame the man. The apology had been sincere and Mike clearly didn't know how to react to such an unheard of event.

When he finally did speak, it was in a more agreeable tone, "Well then, I'll leave you to it."

The consulting detective casually mentioned to the departing figure, "This might be a fortuitous time for you to access that large bottle of gin in the locked third drawer of your office desk."

Stamford came to an abrupt halt.

"If I were you," Sherlock tacked on with a trace of humor lacing his voice, "I'd be more than ready for a large nip or two. After all, Causey and I together in a room for longer than two seconds is bound to drive just about anyone to the bottom of a bottle."

Sherlock heard him chortle under his breath as he continued on his way.

Flexing his fingers in anticipation, he was prepared to give his full attention to the body, but first he wanted to give reaching Molly another go only to be stymied once more.

"Blast," he muttered under his breath, running a frustrated hand through his dark curls whilst setting his mobile on the corner of the slab.

This was no good. He needed to focus on the case. The case was of prime importance. Worry for Molly was impeding his normal process, and that just wouldn't do. Even so, he found himself making one more futile attempt before pushing the female pathologist to the back of his mind.

The body itself smelled slightly damp, as had the clothing. When examined under the microscope, Sherlock discovered that though the hair hung in matted ropes, it was clean, but stripped of all its' natural oils. This all signified that they'd been bathed or washed down; with a hose perhaps.

Could it be that the murderer bathed or drenched their bodies and redressed them before dumping them off at the allotted locations? Of course, the person who'd cut them down, would want to rinse away any type of trace evidence that could lead to his identity. Fingerprints would not be found either; the killer _had_ to have been wearing latex gloves. Only a fool would do otherwise, and this… this genius… this mastermind… this killer, was no fool.

The clothing Sherlock noted, after having examined them more thoroughly, were rather sophisticated and nicely tailored with a whiff of expensive cologne around the collar; the articles had fit the victim like a glove. Had the murderer measured them up and then gone to some high-end establishment to buy the proper clothing? Sherlock shook his head. No, far too tedious. It was possible that the clothing could have been taken from their own homes. He was speculating that all of the victims had been found dressed just so as serial killers didn't deviate from their preferred pattern.

Sherlock leaned close, breathing in deeply, while sweeping his nose over the upper torso. He detected the pungent beginnings of mold spores on one side of the body (transfer from the victim's clothing) indicating that they must have been leaning against a wall located in the north corner where rain had seeped in through.

Possibly the victim had been being held in a building of poor construction with the balance of probability suggesting an old, slowly crumbling place; leading Sherlock to believe that it must either be an abandoned flat block or a factory. A cursory exam of the extremities of the body showed no signs of any sort of shackling of the wrists or ankles which led Sherlock to the conclusion that while in captivity, the victims were permitted to wander freely in their prison.

The bruising on all of the other bodies which Sherlock had examined, had been at least two weeks old, give or take a day. The massive bruising in the rib cage area of this latest victim, was no exception to those findings. Obviously, he'd been pummeled repeatedly in the chest by a size 11 shoe or boot. That, along with the desiccated remnants of pink saliva at the corner of the mouth, were all clear indications that a broken rib or ribs had punctured the lung. Even without the benefit of an autopsy, the consulting detective could easily conclude that this had ultimately been the cause of death.

There was plenty of bruising in the neck area as well, signifying strangulation. Sherlock pulled his magnifier from his pocket, squinting as he moved the glass all around the mottled region. Upon closer inspection, he deduced that they were _not_ marks of strangulation as previously thought. The killer had left the bruises while holding the victim by the throat as he pried open the stiff, unyielding mouth so as to be able to stuff the ether soaked cloth inside.

This made perfect sense to Sherlock. Such a brutal man would never allow his victims a full dose of ether; that would ruin the fun. After beating them nearly senseless, he would want to watch the suffering of his victim, to delight in the painful agony of their impending death; to see the light of life slowly ebb away into nothingness

Fascinating. Utterly fascinating. It was looking more and more as if this wasn't your regular run-of-the-mill serial killer. Oh no, not at all! Sherlock was on the trail of an authentic psychopath! Life just got interesting!

Absent-mindedly, Sherlock reached over and hit the phone icon of his mobile, listening to the consistent ringing, his eyes still glued to the body he was inspecting. The familiar voicemail message of Molly Hooper reached his ears, asking the caller to leave a message. He jabbed the redial button instead. Then hit it again. And again. And again. Giving up when his efforts appeared fruitless, Sherlock continued on with his extensive examination; Molly would have to wait.

Then, the familiar buzz of his mobile cut into his thought process. Not a call, but a text, he noted distractedly whilst snatching the device from its resting place. Sherlock fought back disappointment when he realized it was from John and not his pathologist. He pressed the text icon, quickly scanning the brief message: ' _Quit bloody calling her!'_ Taking the situation into his own hands, the consulting detective stabbed the call button. To his credit, the former soldier answered immediately.

Sherlock rapped out, "Is she okay, John," Not waiting for the other man's reply, he continued on conversationally, "Obviously, she is. She's overslept after a night of drinking wine and watching crap telly. We must insist that this never happen again. It reflects poorly on Molly and doesn't help us out much either. She..."

"Sherlock… she's not here."

There could be a thousand reasons why she wasn't currently in her home or as to why she didn't have access to her mobile; perhaps Molly had lost the device. Possibly that damned cat had made off with it and hid it someplace which Molly hadn't yet discovered. _Or_ , maybe she was there and John hadn't looked thoroughly enough. After all, his friend wasn't as familiar with layout of Molly's flat as he was.

A more disturbing thought suddenly struck him. Could it be that Molly had found herself a new paramour and was at this moment engaged in an early afternoon romantic rendezvous at _his_ residence? It would be a perfectly legitimate reason for having not returned calls or texts. Silencing all items which could interfere with the mood while engaged in such activities was the thing to do, or so he'd been reliably informed. Sherlock's brows drew together into a tight furrow, feeling uneasy with this train of thought.

"Did you check _every_ room?" Sherlock demanded sharply, effectively pushing aside all silly, wild imaginings of Molly's theoretical love life.

"Yes," John confirmed, sounding tired. "Every single one."

The consulting detective could hear steps, so either John was pacing back and forth or he was still looking around the rooms hoping he missed something on the first go.

Sherlock's hand tightened on his mobile. "The cellar too?"

There was a momentary pause before John asked, "She has a cellar?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he bit out in exasperation, "Yes! It's a door off the kitchen, adjacent to the ice box."

He was growing irritated at his friends' inability to search a flat thoroughly. Clearly, he was going to have to re-educate John on the proper technique. Sherlock heard quick footfalls moving to the kitchen.

"Uh, there's something in front of the cellar door. "

Sherlock scowled. "Well, spill it, man! What is it?"

"It's some sort of decorative thing. Has potted plants, cookbooks and… I don't know, Sherlock… Thing-a-ma-jigs on it. What Mary called knick-knacks; things of that sort."

"How tall is it," Sherlock fired off.

"Covers the entire door, pretty much." He mumbled. "No wonder I missed it. I mean, honestly, if you didn't already know it was there you'd pass it by completely. Even the blasted knob is...

"Focus, John!"

Sherlock heard what he was sure was a whispered, 'tosser' but ignored it.

"Look at the floor in front of the Bakers' Rack; that's what it's called, by the way. Do you see any markings as if it had been dragged across the floor or pulled out and then shoved back into place?"

A heartbeat passed, then John said, "Nope, sorry Sherlock. There's nothing like that."

"Don't touch anything," Sherlock informed him sounding both ominous and firm. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes," John answered, clearly put out.

"Not a _single_ thing," Sherlock reiterated sternly. "Not even the cat."

"The _cat_?" John echoed, confused.

"Yes! The cat," Sherlock shot out quickly. "Do keep up, John."

With a single tap the call was ended and the mobile was stuffed into the pocket of his coat. Sherlock took a deep, calming breath. It would serve no use to give in to rising panic. Still, an abnormal unease began to reassert itself. What if she _was_ in danger?

The word danger, in Sherlock's mind, was antithesis to Molly Hooper. Over their long acquaintance, he'd made sure that it had stayed that way. His actions towards her, especially the unpleasant ones, ensured that no one from Jim Moriarty straight down to John, would ever look on her as anything other than insignificant in the eyes of the great consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. He'd placed her firmly in the shadows; unseen and obscure. It might have been a thankless place for Molly to have dwelled, but it had been a _safe_ one.

He'd been unkind to her in both word and deed. All of which had been done out of necessity, or so he'd told himself over and over again as he tried to ignore Molly's wounded, brown eyes whenever he'd inflicted pain through countless nasty deductions. He'd found it quite gratifying, in these latter years, how she'd taken to putting him staunchly in his place, refusing to take any of his shite. If he were the sentimental sort, he might say she'd come into her own. If he were a trite one, he'd say she'd blossomed beautifully. Since, he was neither, he'd kept both sentiments to himself.

When the time had come to implement The Fall scenario; she'd been instrumental to the entire plan. At first, when Mycroft had suggested Molly's inclusion into their small conspiracy, Sherlock had balked at the idea. But, as the plan grew to fruition, even he had to admit that the 'British Government' along with his homeless network wouldn't be enough to pull off something so intricately convoluted. They'd needed someone on the _inside_ of Barts hospital corridors, someone they could trust, and Molly had fit the bill perfectly. When she's asked what he needed and he'd uttered the word: 'You.' A truer one had never been spoken.

Although, only a select few knew of Molly's initial contributions, it had still been far too many for Sherlock's liking. After his resurrection, she'd been even more exposed. It was as if a bright beacon of light had been aimed directly on where she had, until then, lingered amongst the shadows; safely ensconced from prying, predatory eyes. No longer was she a relatively unknown factor, which had concerned Sherlock. Molly was always meant to be a stranger to danger; a codicil he and Mycroft had worked out between themselves before bringing her into the fold.

* * *

It took thirty bloody minutes to get to Molly's flat. The combination of horrific traffic and a dolt for a cab driver had really worked on Sherlock's fraying nerves. He had briefly considered walking, which would have helped to clear his head, but chose a cab so as to get to Molly's much more quickly. In retrospect, he probably would have reached his destination sooner if he _had_ walked. To add insult to injury, the sum required to pay the driver had been preposterous.

Sherlock stormed into the flat with a rather large scowl on his face and found John pacing, just as he had suspected would be the case. His friend was looking particularly glum and he noticed that several strands of greying hair stood on end as if he'd been tugging on it (hard) for quite some time.

Coming to a standstill at Sherlock's entrance, John demanded huffily, "What the hell took you so long?"

"Traffic." Sherlock bit out waspishly. "Doltish driver."

Understanding flooded John's features, he nodded and said, "Think we might've flagged down the same cabbie."

"Molly's morning paper is still in the mailbox," Sherlock informed his friend, going straight to the issue. "Normally, it would be on the table by now. Molly reads it while drinking coffee in her favorite kitten-shaped mug whilst enjoying toast - frightfully brown, almost burnt in fact - thickly spread with Duerr's Fine Cut Orange Marmalade."

John nearly went crossed-eyed in astonishment, then he muttered haltingly, "Uh, right. Sure. And you would know this because... "

Sherlock ignored the open-ended question by stating matter-of-factly, "The rug by the table has a slight hump to it." Pointing, he continued, "See, it's bunched up right here while the rest of the carpet is lying flat."

"Okaaaaaay… meaning what exactly?"

" _Meaning_ that someone with an approximate size 11 shoe made this mark. You are a size 9 and a half and, of course, Molly's feet are much smaller. There's also the fact that the type of shoe that caused this bunching up, clearly belongs to a man. See the square-toed indent? Molly's everyday shoes are rounded at the tip and when she's dressed up, her high-heels come to a point at the toe which according to her, makes her legs look longer and by extension adds height to her tiny stature."

Sherlock slipped passed his slack-jawed friend, long strides carrying him into the kitchen. One of the first things he noticed were Toby's empty bowls. A definite red flag by Sherlock's reckoning. Molly would _never_ leave her feline companion without adequate provisions. It was her habit to overfill both his food and water whenever she knew she would be gone a good portion of the day.

He sniffed. A strong odor of ammonia-based urine and cat feces overwhelmed his sinus'; the litter box hadn't been cleaned out. Further cause for concern. Molly emptied it faithfully in as many as three times a day to keep the inevitable stench, left by her furry friend, at bay. On closer inspection, Sherlock estimated that it had been at least 15-20 hours since Toby had been fed and that the litter box had been attended to.

He took a cursory glance at the Baker's Rack. Molly must have purchased it sometime after Sherlock's sojourn in her home. Two plants, nearly dry if the leaves were anything to go on. Numerous publications on the health benefits of juicing. Several Jaime Oliver cookbooks including a dog-eared copy of Cooking For One. Ceramic figurines, a bowl with a few coins, a framed photo of an older couple; parents presumably, and a few other odds and ends which were placed amongst the wire shelving. Nothing out of the norm there, and as John had informed him, no markings on the floor.

Sherlock unerringly made his way to Molly's bedroom, John following a few steps behind. Narrowed eyes scanned the room, ghosting over whatever he considered trivial, focusing on her queen-sized bed. Meticulously made. Light turquoise coverlet neatly folded back an inch and a half. Sharp hospital corners. Multi-coloured throw rug folded three times over-end. Both pillows were pristine, no signs of concavity.

John watched his friend inquisitively as he crossed the length of the room to a beautifully crafted oak wardrobe. Raising one long-fingered hand, he lightly pressed on one side of it until a slight indent appeared, sliding the superficial loose piece of wood to the side, revealing a small niche.

"What the…"

"I had it installed," Sherlock explained. "I stayed with Molly for a bit before I left the country."

He plucked an object from the opening, holding it aloft. A small key.

"Originally the wardrobe key hung on a small hook, but after I gifted her with a small pistol, I thought it wise to have this hidden nook created for safety reasons."

"Y… you gave Molly a _gun_?!" John exclaimed in disbelief.

"A pistol," Sherlock pithily corrected, flinging the wardrobe doors wide, quickly scanning the contents.

Neatly organized jumpers and cardigans of various nauseating designs were off to the left. Impeccably pressed women's trousers hung next to skirts in neutral colours made of material ranging from wool to silk. Blouses and shirts separated by seasonal usage, were tucked away into the appropriate spots. Glancing upward, Sherlock zeroed in on the small box which he knew held the Derringer. John crowded in close and gasped when his friend flipped the lid up.

"That's a beautiful piece,"John breathed reverently, taking in the elegant lines of delicate scrollwork and the shimmering mother-of-pearl handle grip.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, gently stroking the barrel with a fore-finger. "It fits Molly's hand to perfection." The clearing of John's throat brought Sherlock abruptly back from his reverie.

Disregarding the other man's knowing smirk, he carefully returned the pistol to the box and then back to its former resting place. All seemed to be in order here. Every article of clothing where is should be. Nothing appeared to be amiss.

Wait!

Sherlock began to rifle through the hangers, rapidly pulling at each garment, pushing them singly from one side of the wardrobe to the next. It wasn't here! The dark blue dress she'd worn the day of his funeral. Had she discarded? No. He didn't believe so. The modest, but flattering frock, had been chosen at his request.

The dark blue brought a warm, becoming colour to her face, enhancing the toffee brown of her eyes. Its sweetheart neckline guided attention to the curve of her small breasts, whilst the form-fitting (not vulgarly so) material followed the slim line of her waist and hips coming to rest just below the finely-configured bones of her knees.

There was too much sentiment attached to this specific attire for Molly to have just tossed it out. Not even in the aftermath of that dreadful debacle - the call - would she have destroyed something he had hand-picked for her. It wasn't in her nature to foolishly discard an item of personal value in some silly fit of pique.

Even though Molly had been devastated at being forced to divulge what everyone had already known, it had not broken her! He was well aware that she pined for him still; yet again another reason she wouldn't have consigned the dress to the rubbish bin. Only when Molly was truly ready to move on would she dispose of any and all things in her flat which screamed _Sherlock_ including the handsomely made, dreadfully expensive, blue garment.

"What's wrong?" John asked, interrupting the processing of his thoughts.

"Hmmm… I'm wondering where Molly's blue dress might be."

Shrugging, John suggested, "Cleaner's maybe."

Sherlock hummed in reply, looking down as something brushed softly against his leg. Toby.

"Where have you hidden your owner, you feline mongrel?"

"What the!... Where did he come from,"John sputtered.

"Toby prefers to sleep under his mistress' bed whenever he's left alone," Sherlock offered, lifting said cat, running hands and nose over the small beast. "If you aren't aware of the exact place he reclines, it can be easily missed by those with no keen observational skills."

John rolled his eyes, and said, "I saw hide nor hare of the little bugger the entire time I was here, but you stroll in and suddenly he wants to make nice?"

Examination complete, Sherlock determined that Toby would yield no clues as to what happened or where his owner might be, and merely replied, "Toby and I are quite familiar with each other."

As if to put paid to the truth of the matter, the cat in question, threw out a paw which landed squarely on the tip of Sherlock's nose and let out a belligerent mewl of hunger.

John's smart-arsed giggle was cut short when his friend unceremoniously pushed Toby at him with a sharp, "Feed the cat." The other man barely had the opportunity to catch the disgruntled feline, who did not take kindly on the switch; it hissed, trying desperately to get away from John.

"Bugger," he griped, searching for a way to grip the animal without incurring its further wrath. "Come on, kitty," he crooned. "Let's get some nummie nummies." Toby persisted in his struggles, giving John a glare that was easy to read: crazy, stupid human!

Of course, Sherlock was no help, the blighter! He was moving on to Molly's en suite bath. John tucked the yowling, spitting creature firmly under one arm, determined to feed the daft thing whether either of them liked it or not!

Because the bathroom door was already ajar, it took a mere push for it to open completely. Molly wasn't in the habit of closing the door all the way after completing her shower so as to air out the bathroom to prevent steam from building up and ruining the caulking.

Sherlock's eyes locked onto the laundry basket in the far corner. Upon opening the lid, he pulled the clothes from the hamper, scattering them on the floor. The outfit Molly had worn yesterday (that godawful cardigan with the cherries which had been paired with navy, high-waisted loosely fitting pants and a frilly Peter-Pan collared blouse) were not present. The sea green shower curtain was pulled tightly across and there was no tell-tale drying washcloth and bath towel hanging over the rod.

Tilting his head and sticking his aristocratic nose in the air like a well-trained blood hound, Sherlock drew in a deep breath. Ah! Just as he'd thought. The room did not contain the least bit of residue from Molly's signature body wash, Winter Rose Wallflower from Bath & Body Works. Another generous sniff had him squinting; stymied at what the strange out-of-place odor lingering in the air might be.

A just noticed anomaly catches Sherlock off guard. The faded grey, grimy looking hand-towel he spies on the vanity is odd for a few reasons. It certainly wasn't one of Molly's. Hers are bright white with a trimming of green vines around the edges. Even more curious is that the thin, tattered looking cloth was placed on the left-hand side of the wash basin. Molly is _right-handed_.

Abandoning the dirty laundry, Sherlock heads to the sink, dimly aware that John has come to stand in the doorway. Carefully picking the slightly tattered towel up by the one of the ends, he examined it closely.

"What's that you go there." John asked. "Is it something im…"

Sherlock cuts him off by raising an imperious hand, signaling that the consulting detective needed quiet as he was about to enter his Mind Palace.

Sighing in a beleaguered fashion, John obliges his friend.

Smeared remnants of Molly's lipstick - Queen Saint Lipstick in Peachy Nude - as well as traces of her foundation - Estée Lauder Double Wear in Cool Bone - were on this unrecognizable, manky rag. Impossible! First and foremost, Molly would never use such a filthy, contaminated piece of rubbish to cleanse her face. There was also that fact that Molly never used anything other than Sephora soft touch cotton pads to eliminate the day's end remaining residue of cosmetics.

He brought the revolting item closer to his face. Curious. Sherlock detected not the aloe of Molly's face cleanser, but an odd medicinal scent. Faint, it was true, but noticeable to his superior sense of smell. He was familiar with this fragrance. Knew it, but how? He'd smelt it before, was certain of it. But where? Why couldn't he place it?!

Sherlock's eyes flew open. "No…" he gasped, rocking back on his heels, stumbling drunkenly.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! What is is? What's wrong?"

He felt hands grab him, John's face was a blurry, swirling object. Everything around him was reeling; careening out of control, heart thudding in his ears.

"For God's sake, Sherlock," John yelled, shaking him brutally. "Pull yourself together, man! What is it?!"

Sherlock's labored breathing made it difficult for John to understand what he was attempting to vocalize, so he grabbed the other man's' face, forcing him to look into his eyes.

"Listen to me. Listen, Sherlock. You're having a panic attack," he explained, tone calm and succinct. " Slow breathes, mate. In and out. Yeah, that's it. You're doing great. A few more. Good, good."

"Ether," Sherlock proclaimed, looking tragically and horribly lost. Clutching frantically at his friend's sleeve, the great Sherlock Holmes, let out a small noise that sounded suspiciously like a broken sob and said, "He's got her. He's got our Molly."

* * *

First and foremost thanks to **caughtinblackseyes** for being so amazing and putting so much work in helping me with this story! I owe her so much.

A small psa - I doubt that it'll be possible for me to update weekly due to university and work. Chapters will come slower, but I suppose they'll also be longer. Be patient, lovelies, the fun is just starting!

Reviews are highly appreciated and needed for further encouragement with this story!

 ** _Mondy xx_**

* * *

I have nothing to do with BBC's take on Sherlock neither the characters created by Arthur C. Doyle. I'm merely borrowing the characters to have some fun.


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